Finishing School (17 page)

Jesup, Georgia

T
hey had left Atlanta early, before eight, and gotten caught up in rush hour traffic. Special Agent Scotty Carlyle once again drove the SUV with Rossi riding shotgun and Prentiss in back. The trip was 230 miles and Rossi had planned on four hours, letting them get to Jesup before lunch. The Atlanta traffic had killed that idea before they were even out of town.

Carlyle had taken I-75 south out of town. Eighty miles later, where I-475 veered south around Macon and hooked up with I-75S again, Carlyle stayed on his easterly route that became I-16E headed for Savannah.

At Dublin, Carlyle cut south again, taking U.S. 331 to McRae and then turning onto U.S. 341 for the last long easterly leg of the trip to Jesup. As they entered Wayne County, they were greeted by a sign that read SOUTHEAST GEORGIA'S BEST KEPT SECRET. Rossi hoped that wasn't true, at least as far as their investigation was concerned. When they got into Jesup, Carlyle took a right onto Sunset Boulevard.

‘‘All right, Mr. DeMille,'' Rossi said, ‘‘I'm ready for my close-up.''

‘‘Say what?'' Carlyle asked.

Prentiss said, ‘‘You've never seen
Sunset Boulevard
? Classic film? Billy Wilder?''

Glancing over, Carlyle asked, ‘‘Any brothers in it?''

‘‘No,'' Rossi said, with half a smile, ‘‘just William Holden and Gloria Swanson.''

‘‘Never heard of it.'' Then, tapping himself on the chest, Carlyle said, “‘I
am
big—it's the
pictures
that got small.' ”

Rossi and Prentiss laughed.

Carlyle said, ‘‘You think the only movies I ever saw had Fred Williamson in 'em?''

Rossi shook his head. ‘‘Just figured you were too damn young.''

‘‘Maybe so,'' Carlyle said, ‘‘but I took a film class when I was an undergrad at Ball State. And, anyway, Turner Classic Movies comes with basic cable.''

From Sunset Boulevard, Carlyle made the left onto Orange Street and rolled into downtown Jesup, though that was a grandiose way to put it for this home to a shade over ten thousand people. The business district had a small-town feel with mom-and-pop businesses interspersed with occasional vacant storefronts.

Soon they were pulling up across the street from a newish-looking brick building with the words JESUP POLICE DEPARTMENT in granite above the door, to the left of which was a picture window bearing the department's logo.

They parked and got out, Rossi noticing no meters to feed. People on sidewalks on either side were split between those who ignored the visitors and others who frankly studied with good-natured suspicion the strangers with the government plates on their vehicle. As the trio of FBI agents crossed in the middle of the block, a pickup driven by a greasy-haired young man slowed down for him to eyeball them.

A wooden bench under the big window of the police station was the current location of a lanky African-American in a gray suit and an open-collar white shirt, eating a candy bar, as if to bulk up some. With his short black hair and a full goatee, he probably appeared older than he was, and Rossi made him for no more than thirty. His warm brown eyes brightened and he smiled and rose as they neared.

‘‘Detective Tim Mickerson,'' he said, extending his hand.

Carlyle shook the man's hand and made the introductions.

Mickerson squinted and put on a sideways grin. ‘‘Not the
writer
David Rossi?''

‘‘Guilty as charged,'' Rossi said with a nod. ‘‘About ten years ago, the White Sox had a bonus baby named Mickerson, I believe.''

The detective's grin straightened. ‘‘Also guilty. A Sox fan?''

‘‘Baseball fan,'' Rossi said. ‘‘Cubs, though.''

Mickerson made a face. ‘‘Dirty job, but I guess somebody's gotta do it.''

‘‘That doesn't mean I don't appreciate talent. Are you the Mickerson in question?''

‘‘Yeah,'' Mickerson said, trying to rotate his shoulder. ‘‘And a baby no more—not after a torn labrum. Damn thing never healed right. I came back here and became a cop.''

Rossi said, ‘‘Nothing wrong with that, except the paycheck.''

Shrugging, the detective said, ‘‘Hey, cost of living's low down here, and I like the work just fine. It's not baseball, but I've still got a little nest egg.''

‘‘A lot of guys don't,'' Rossi said, shaking his head. ‘‘Sign a ball for me?''

‘‘For a Cubs fan?'' Mickerson asked, rubbing his chin. ‘‘Maybe, if the famous writer signed a book for me . . .''

‘‘We could do a trade,'' Rossi said with a grin, and the two men shook on it.

‘‘Now,'' Mickerson said, the candy bar wrapper disappearing into a jacket pocket, ‘‘let's talk about why you're here.''

Prentiss said, ‘‘Abigail Mathis.''

Mickerson's expression went sober. ‘‘June 1998. Biggest crime this town ever saw.''

Rossi asked, ‘‘Were you here yet?''

‘‘Naw. Still playin' ball back then. I'll introduce you to Malcolm Henry—he was the investigator then, retired now. So, you want to meet the family first or look at the evidence?''

‘‘Well, we're here,'' Rossi said, glancing at the police station. ‘‘Let's look at the evidence.''

Mickerson reached in an inside jacket pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it and handed it over to Rossi.

Rossi studied the photograph of a boot print in the mud. ‘‘What's this?''

‘‘That's the evidence,'' Mickerson said. ‘‘Unless you want the window screen the killer cut. He cut it with a serrated knife.''

Prentiss said, ‘‘He wasn't a killer then.''

Shrugging, Mickerson said, ‘‘He is now.''

‘‘Well,'' Rossi said, ‘‘now that we've gone over the evidence, let's meet the family.''

As they rode along—Mickerson up front navigating, as Carlyle drove, Rossi now in the back with Prentiss—the senior profiler couldn't help but think about the number of people this case had touched. Not just the three victims, but their parents, family and friends, and God only knew who else. He'd seen some of these monsters get famous, sometimes in part because of him, while their many victims (a list not limited to just the actual murder victims) languished in anonymity.

It stunk.

He had made calls on victims' families many times in the old days. Although he had come back to the BAU for his own reasons, he wondered how much longer he could continue to immerse himself in the rivers of despair these human monsters created, and not come away as broken as Jason Gideon or Max Ryan or Elle Greenaway. The latter he didn't know, but he had heard—Prentiss was her replacement.

The profilers all guarded themselves against burnout as best they could; still, the threat was always there. Other personal damage could be inflicted by the job, like the marital trouble that had crept up on Hotchner, who in part saw himself as fighting for all families like his and along the way lost his wife and was now struggling to maintain a decent relationship with his son. Chalk up another family ripped apart by these monsters.

The Mathises lived in a rambling story-and-a-half clapboard on Charleston Street, west and a little south of the police station. The white house looked like every other house on the block. The driveway might be on the other side here and there, and one yard's tree might be taller than another's, but essentially the house and yard were interchangeable with their neighbors.

Somehow, out of this sameness, the UnSub had chosen the little girl who perfectly fit his psychotic need.

How?

Why?

At the front door of the house, Mickerson made the introductions and the agents were invited inside. The living room of the Mathis home was small and devoid of family photos of any kind.

No television in the room, either, the furnishings plain, simple—a gray couch against one wall, two chairs divided by a picture window, a midroom plain brown table bearing the day's neatly folded newspaper and a Bible. No magazines, no electronic devices, not so much as a cell phone set down anywhere—the electric lamps on the sofa's end tables seemed the family's only acquiescence to modern technology.

Blond, blue-eyed Ansen Mathis would not have been out of place on a recruiting poster for the Aryan Nation, with his wide shoulders and muscular arms. Mathis—in a denim jacket over a navy blue T-shirt and jeans—had pale skin for such a sunny clime, and a smile as narrow and straight as a razor slash.

His wife, Ashley, had shoulder-length blonde hair, green eyes, a rosy complexion and a slender build. She wore a lightweight brown jacket over a scoop-neck blue shirt. She too wore jeans. They looked to Rossi like a countrified version of the bride and groom from atop a wedding cake.

The Mathises each took a chair, the picture window between them, while the three federal agents squeezed onto the small couch and Mickerson remained standing.

At least Rossi had been spared the notification job this time—the family had been informed of their daughter's death as soon as she was identified. But judging from the somber expressions and red-rimmed eyes of Ansen and Ashley Mathis, the wound remained raw.

When everyone had settled, Rossi met Mathis's blue eyes. ‘‘Tell us about that day, sir, if you're up to it.''

Mathis let out a long breath. ‘‘That night was like any other, I'd have to say. We read Abby a story, kissed her good night, and went to bed ourselves. Wasn't till we got up, next morning, we realized she was gone. Ashley called 911 right away, and I went door to door in the neighborhood, but it was too late.''

Rossi nodded politely. Mrs. Mathis was using a tissue to dab at tears.

‘‘I wonder if we could back up,'' Prentiss said, sitting forward. ‘‘Could we hear about your
whole
day that day?''

Ansen and Ashley Mathis traded a confused look.

‘‘You can widen that,'' Rossi said, ‘‘to the several days before.''

Bewildered, Mathis asked, ‘‘Why, Agent Rossi?''

Rossi sighed. ‘‘The Unknown Subject who abducted your daughter did not pick her at random. As I believe you were informed, this individual has abducted other children, all of whom share your daughter's basic description. So a little dark-haired girl down the block wouldn't do, and neither would a redheaded boy or girl two streets over. Whoever took Abby did so because she fit his unique needs . . . and because he knew she would be here—here, in
this
house, not any of the other houses in this neighborhood. So the question I come up with, as an investigator, is: How did he know which house the blonde girl lived in?''

Mrs. Mathis shrugged and her husband frowned in thought.

Rossi said, ‘‘I know you went over all this, time and again, ten years ago. But if there's something . . .''

No one said anything for a long moment.

He tried again: ‘‘Whoever took your child knew where to look—and we just have to figure out
how
he knew.''

‘‘I'm sorry,'' Mathis said, wide-eyed, shaking his head. ‘‘But other than our friends at church, we hardly see anybody. We keep to ourselves and a small circle.''

Prentiss asked, ‘‘Did Abby go to preschool?''

Mrs. Mathis said, ‘‘Yes—at the church.''

Rossi asked, ‘‘Which church?''

Mathis said, ‘‘New Kingdom Worship Church.''

‘‘How long have you been members?''

‘‘Twenty years for me,'' Mrs. Mathis said. ‘‘A couple years less for Ansen.''

Rossi asked, ‘‘Is the membership steady, or is there turnover? Do people come and go?''

Mathis allowed some teeth to show through the razor-blade smile. ‘‘Not a lot of turnover
anywhere
in Jesup, Mr. Rossi. I bet we haven't lost five families at our church in all the time we've been there.''

Rossi asked them more questions, including whether they'd seen any out-of-state vehicles or suspicious individuals near the house or even just in town, but neither parent could come up with anything.